It holds promise,
With a creamy whiteness that cannotbe reproduced,
Telling the stories that haven't been written,
The masterpieces waiting to be let out.
So you let the words tumble onto the page,
Like raindrops on a pond, a splash, a ripple,
Writing fury, and grace, with scalloped edges,
Lemon-lime soda and burned toast.
But then you lift your head and stare
At the rows of your smudged intellect,
Realizing that you've filled the pages with weak tea,
Empty eggshells and puff pastry; the junk you call writing,
Hollow words covered in dust.
And you crumple the pages in disgust,
Throwing away the months and days,
Only to begin again, with the dream of a masterpiece.